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If we get up early enough on Saturday mornings, before the boy wakes up and begins his day of talking, Imaginary Keith and I might talk about things that we imagine are happening to us, but that we can’t quite perceive.  Like teeth getting cavities, for instance.

“What about the cusp of greatness?” Imaginary Keith wanted to know.  “Do you think I might be riding the cusp of greatness and don’t know it?”

“No.  I’m pretty sure if you were riding the cusp of greatness you’d know it.  Do you feel like you’re riding the cusp?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I think you’d be sure.”

“My chest hair is turning white,” he said.  Completely unrelated, if you ask me.

“And you think that has something to do with it?”

“Wizards sometimes battle evil and win and then WHAM, they’re all white.  Or like when someone sees a ghost and when they wake up in the morning.  Pure white hair.”  Imaginary Keith smiled.  Easy to do when you’ve cast yourself as the force against evil and there’s not really any evil around to do battle with.

“Sorry, but if you were a wizard you’d know whether or not you were on the cusp of greatness.  The fact that you’re asking proves that you’re not not a wizard, which rules out anything mystical about your chest hair turning white.  You’re getting old, period.”

“Getting old doesn’t rule out the chance of riding the cusp of greatness.  I’m probably just getting close.  Now that I think about it, it feels like I’m getting close.  Yep.  That’s what it feels like.  I just realized it.”

“What’s it feel like?”

“Kind of like getting old, I think.”

“Hmmm.”

“If we filmed my chest, how long to you think I’d have to hold still before we filmed one of my chest hairs turning white?”

“Depends.  Will you be battling evil?”

“No.  Just lying there.”

“About an hour, I think.  Maybe less.  I’ve detected you picking up speed lately.”

“Yea, me too.”

“I’ll grab the camera, before it’s too late.  Hold on.”

“Hurry.  I think I feel one whitening up.”

“What’s that feel like?”

“Just like battling evil.  You might want to hurry.”

The phone rang this morning, earlier then normal for a Saturday morning, and while I’m usually the one in charge of the phone around here, I was still in bed, trying to recover from the onslaught of boys from yesterday.  Boys, it ends up, are exhausting work.  I think it’s mostly the constant refereeing, necessary if you want to return them home without broken arms or wrestled off heads.

“Can you get that?” I asked Imaginary Keith.  He shuffled off down the hall without a word.

“Hello.”  It’s always a curious thing, watching my friend interact with the world, mainly because I don’t see much of it.  He and I talk, he talks to the world, and I talk to the world when my hand is forced, but it’s not all that often that I have the chance to actually see him in action.  The phone must have been left out in the living room.  It was hard to hear what he was saying.

“Good morning.  Yes, I’ve heard of you.”
“No.  No, of course not.”
“Yes, but I’ll have to turn it on.”
“Yes, all the time.  Him?  Well, not so mu..” (lowered voice and whispering)
“Crops?  No.”
“The grocery store.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“No sir.  No, no disrespect.  You just surprised me is all.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.  Yes emperor.”
“Right away.”

I hear the bang of a cupboard door closing.  Coffee mug.

“Who was it?” I ask.

“On the phone?”

“Of course on the phone.”

“Oh, that was Constantine I.  The Roman emperor.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“What’d he want?”

“He’s faxing over a decree, along with some deliver instructions.  The fax will explain everything, he said.”

“Better turn it on then.”

“That’s what I told him.  Constantine says there aren’t any grocery stores in 1st century Rome.  You think that’s true?”

“I doubt it.  I can’t imagine an emperor being much in touch with the world.”

The phone rang again and the fax machine came on.

“Here it comes,” Imaginary Keith said.

“Let me see that.”

To: Imaginary Keith

From: Constantine, Emperor of Rome

Page: 1 of 1

Note: I. Keith, Take the following to Washington.  For some reason, their fax machine won’t take my call.  Thanks.

Message:

“Let all judges and all city people and all tradesmen rest upon the venerable day of the sun. But let those dwelling in the country freely and with full liberty attend to the culture of their fields; since it frequently happens that no other day is so fit for the sowing of grain, or the planting of vines; hence, the favorable time should not be allowed to pass, lest the provisions of heaven be lost.” — Given the seventh of March, Crispus and Constantine being consuls, each for the second time. A.D. 321.

“Blue laws!” I said.  “What’s Constantine think is going on around here?  Did you ask him that?”

“He got kind of mad when I asked him about grocery stores.  Told me not to question an emperor.”

“I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

“What?  Blue laws?” Imaginary Keith asked.

“No, Washington.”

“Oh.”

“It doesn’t say D.C., though.  Maybe we can just take it up to Olympia.”

“You mean Seattle?  Seattle’s the capital.”

“No it’s not.  It’s Olympia.”

“I think that’s just where they make the beer.  Oh wait.  I think it’s Spokane.”

“Spokane?  That does sound right, now that I think about it.  Let’s take it to Spokane.”

“It’s closer, I think.”

“I’ll have to look at a map.”

“Will we pass through Olympia?”

“I don’t know.”

“If we do, let’s stop for beer.”

“I think that’d be okay.  Fax says nothing about not stopping.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes.  Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

If I look away I’ll miss what little of him there is left, because he disappears so quickly these days.  Something leaches from his thoughts, something heavy and dark that I can’t put my finger on—or something, perhaps, that I’m afraid to put my finger on, afraid that it will grab onto me and take me with it—and I watch as the heaviness sweeps across him, dragging him down, his face collapsing as if some soul beneath the fear were made of nothing but dry sand.  The thought of the day ahead washes over him and then he is gone, and I am left here to face another day alone.

I miss my friend and his dreams.  I miss the arguments, the curiosity of his thought, and his inner focus that so many mistake for laziness.  I miss Imaginary Keith and find myself hoping sometimes that he will escape whatever it is that has this hold on him, but know that hope is not much of a rope to throw down to a man who’s fallen into a hole.  Can you pull a man up with nothing but hope?

Take hold of this, I call into the nothing, but again, there is no answer.